


Richie Tozier: Fuck Extraordinaire

by beanplague but sexy (beanplague)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Adult Losers Club (IT), Anal Sex, Bottom Richie Tozier, First Time, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Top Eddie Kaspbrak, Virgin Richie Tozier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22111615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanplague/pseuds/beanplague%20but%20sexy
Summary: Richie has a secret. A secret so terrible that it might cause natural disasters and dismantle society with its earth-shattering magnitude. A secret so shameful that it might end up killing him, and he will lie alone in his grave, his lover tearfully wondering, "Why? What secret might have taken my lover from me so tragically?"Or maybe it will just result in some mild embarrassment.Richie Tozier has never fucked.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 50
Kudos: 615





	Richie Tozier: Fuck Extraordinaire

**Author's Note:**

> imagine for a moment that richie lives in NY or eddie lives in LA. one or the other. probably the former.
> 
> also, disclaimer: the sex in this fic is deliberately pretty humorous w/ less emphasis on Sexy Shit as it were. heartwarming: witness this 40-year-old man come to terms with his adult sexuality and nut to that, cowards.

Richie is going to put all of his cards out on the table, okay? He’s going to confess something that nobody knows about him. He’s going to strip down to his soul for you right now, alright? Here it goes:

He fucked your mom.

Ah, fuck! Okay, no. Richie didn’t fuck your mom. She’s probably a very nice, respectable person who does _not_ fuck clinically depressed closet cases from Maine. Or, if she does fuck clinically depressed closet cases from Maine, she’s probably very nice about it, and she probably hasn’t encountered this specific clinically depressed closet case from Maine. Probably.

Well, certainly, she hasn’t. Because Richie—well, Richie hasn’t had sex before.

Ha. _Gotcha,_ virgins.

Wait. Wait. No. Okay. No more jokes. Full soul-searching, humor-free, non-meta narrative from here on out. Scouts’ honor. Okay? Okay.

So, yeah. Virgin Richie. Haha. How does a wacky thing like that come about, you ask? He’s a reasonably normal, only slightly traumatized forty-year-old man. He’s certainly had enough time to come to terms with his adult sexuality—or, well, has he?

See, Richie has certainly _tried_ exploring his sexuality multiple times over the last decade and some change, but none of it has really panned out. He can barely bring himself to talk to attractive guys in a normal, human way without fearing impending doom or the arrival of a homophobic clown.

Even jerking off has its limits. Richie can fantasize all he wants, but most of his fantasies are kind of. Well. They’re a little bit pathetic. Like, all he can really think about when he gives himself that kind of gratification is how ashamed he is, and all he can do to combat that is summon the image of a warm, comforting body in his mind. Half of the time his fantasy men don‘t even do anything sexual. They just hold him, and they tell him _it's okay._

And then there’s that _drop_ after he comes, where he’s just lying there, feeling disgusted and regretting the trajectory of his entire life, wiping his bodily fluids off on a tissue. He only really jerks off at night, because then he can go to sleep and avoid all the emotional repercussions of that shit.

So, y’know, normal adult sexuality stuff. Totally average, non-repressed behavior.

It’s not like Richie has to confront any of that very often. His romantic life is basically nonexistent, so sex is off the table, and his friend group doesn’t usually make any deep inquiry into his sex life, so it’s whatever. Richie can live his whole life as a virgin, and no one will be the wiser.

Richie doesn’t anticipate _Eddie_ being the main problem.

* * *

Eddie has had sex. Multiple times. Heterosexual sex. With a woman.

Richie almost can’t believe it. He supposes it makes sense. Eddie _was_ married to a woman—a woman with a nonzero resemblance to his mother, but a woman nonetheless—and married couples do fuck, usually, but Richie just can’t get past it. That he—Richie _Trashmouth_ Tozier, who once proclaimed himself a ‘slayer of virgins and official pussy whisperer’ at thirteen years old as a joke—is a closeted, gay virgin, and _Eddie Kaspbrak,_ who fears contracting leprosy in the 21st century, has somehow managed to have sex before him.

This information becomes more jarring as Richie and Eddie enter their own relationship, where Eddie is not… _not_ sexual. In fact, he’s pretty enthusiastically sexual. In a relative sense, at least. He doesn’t _seem_ to be panicking every time they kiss or… well, they haven’t done much _but_ kiss, but there have been some suggestive jokes that Richie has wasted time deciphering, here and there.

And even kissing is really hard for Richie, to be honest with you. It’s not that he doesn’t like it—God, he wishes it would never end. He wishes he could just kiss Eddie forever, with no time passing to stop them—but he just can’t get out of his stupid, traumatized head. Sure, Eddie is being a great team player and a steadfast advocate for the usage of tongue, but what does any of it matter if the Tozier line ends with Richie, who is destined for hell?

And that fear is _so_ fucking stupid. Richie doesn’t give a rat’s ass about his family line, nor is he particularly Christian at this point. (It’s very hard to maintain a religious mindset when you spent a good part of your adolescence and early 40s fighting a homicidal alien clown with extremely fake, slightly racist Native American chants.) Still, it matters in the moment, when Richie can barely separate his own enjoyment from the weird, repressed sexuality he’s been cultivating his entire life.

And what the fuck? How is _Eddie_ less repressed than him? How is risk analyst, Munchausen-by-proxy victim _Eddie_ less repressed than Richie? How is _Eddie,_ who cried when being shown a copy of _Playboy_ as a teenager, less fucking repressed than Richie?

(Richie also wanted to cry when shown that magazine, by the way. Or, maybe not cry. He’d probably just vomit if he weren’t so far in the closet that he was having Christ-allegory adventures with some lions and satyrs and shit.)

Seriously. What the fuck?

Richie _does_ ask at one point. He and Eddie are eating breakfast at some diner and the conversation lulls to a point where he can let himself think. He taps his fingers on the linoleum table and tries to summon the courage to talk about sex in a serious fashion. Or, well, a semi-serious one, at least.

“So, uh, I wanted to ask you something?” he says, staring down at his pancakes. They are just drenched in syrup. “It’s a little personal. Very not-diner appropriate.”

“Shoot,” says Eddie, who is eating fine. Just chowing down on his scrambled eggs without thinking at all, totally unburdened by weird delayed sexual hangups.

“Well,” says Richie. “I was just wondering if you, like… well, you told me that you and Myra have been… together before.”

“We had sex, yeah.”

_“Riiight_ … well, I was wondering just… how you’re dealing with _us_ so well? I mean, it’s sort of a different ballpark from unhappy marriage intercourse, I imagine, and I always pictured you as kind of a weird eterna-virgin, so.” As opposed to Richie, another weird eterna-virgin.

Eddie does chuckle a bit. God, he looks so cute when he does. Richie could watch him forever, if it weren’t for that annoying little voice in the back of his head that tells him that Eddie is merely humoring him and that he’d be disgusted with any attention from Richie. Welp. Time to repress that.

“Well, I mean, I had a lot of time?” he shrugs. “We’ve had a lot of time, right? I think we were both in a lot of denial as kids, but my marriage with Myra really cleared things up for me, and getting out of it was probably the best thing I could have done for myself. And at that point it’s like, fuck it. I like you—or—I mean, I like what you and I are doing, and I think filling in the blanks is going to be an experience for the both of us,” he pauses, “but probably less so for you, right?”

Richie blinks. Right. Eddie doesn’t know. Eddie doesn’t know that Richie sometimes lays in bed for hours at a time, desperately trying to imagine what it feels like to touch another man in any way that exceeds 2nd base. Wait, what constitutes 2nd base? God.

“Oh, yeah, you know me. Richie Tozier. Total fuck machine.”

Why did he say that? Why, oh why, did he say that? Well, it’s already out there. Yeah. Sure. Richie “Total Fuck Machine” Tozier. A fuck machine that can’t even think about sex without worrying if there’s some kind of parasitic entity seeing into his thoughts.

Eddie smiles, though. He smiles and he blows air out of his nose. “Yeah. Total fuck machine,” he snorts. “Dude, are you going to eat your food?”

Richie can’t eat his food. He feels too nauseous.

* * *

Richie “Total Fuck Machine” Tozier starts conducting some research about “internalized homophobia” and other bullshit. On one level, it’s kind of helpful. On another, he still can’t fuck, so.

It makes sense to some extent. Richie’s family has never been particularly tolerant of anyone who didn’t… actually, Richie’s family wasn’t very tolerant of anyone, including Richie. His dad was a pretty big fan of slurs and such, and his mom never really commented on _that_ colorful language, but she would be on you like white on rice if you said _oh my God_. And Richie was never any stranger to homophobic bullying; to the feeling of eyes on him at all times, watching, judging every action.

Lying in bed, feeling sorry for himself, he can feel it all rushing back to him, washing over him.

He never even wanted anything more than a kiss as a kid, (and even _that_ would be weaponized against him by Pennywise) and he knew never to hope for anything more than a friend. He just wanted someone to _like_ him. In any way, shape, or form. He wanted someone to hold him; to tell him it was okay.

And maybe that’s the problem—he _still_ wants those things. He might be an adult—an adult with a ghostwritten comedy career and a very flashy, expensive car—but he’s an adult who never got to have adult desires. Not without biting back disgust. Not without hating himself for it.

The phone rings. Who the fuck calls anyone anymore? Send a text, dumbass.

Except it’s Eddie, so it’s fine. Richie sees his name flash across the screen and he thinks— _yeah,_ that makes sense. Very convenient timing. He looks around his room. It’s a mess in here. The bed is unmade. His comforter is hanging halfway off the mattress. His floor is covered in laundry. His flaccid dick is in his hand. Yeah, this is a miserable scene.

Luckily, Eddie can’t see it.

Richie pulls a blanket over his legs and picks up the phone. “Trashmouth here,” he answers.

“Hey babe,” Eddie responds. Richie is quiet for a moment. He thinks he might just lose it.

_“Babe?”_

“I thought I’d try a pet name! It’s a very normal thing to do, asshole.”

“Maybe for literally anyone else.” Why is Richie still talking? Why is he pretending that he wasn’t seconds away from diving headfirst into his middle-aged desire for affection? “Sorry—it was sweet. I’m just—”

“I know,” Eddie says. He sounds so _understanding,_ and Richie is suddenly reminded that he spent the better half of his childhood as this guy’s best friend/gay awakening. Well, he assumes that he was Eddie’s gay awakening. That might be a bit of a stretch, though. The reverse is _close_ to true, but not quite. Richie’s gay awakening was Bill, wildly enough. Eddie is something _way_ more embarrassing and unspeakable—Eddie is Richie’s _first love._

His first and _only_ love, for that matter. At least in a romantic sense. Richie can remember the day he admitted it to himself with perfect clarity.

(Carving out those letters in the Kissing Bridge— _R+E_ —how could he ever forget? It’s the single most embarrassing thing he’s ever done, and yet it felt kind of liberating at the time. Like he was getting it all out there in the most inconvenient way possible. Man, what ever happened to _that_ Richie Tozier? He probably didn’t expect to grow up into this bizarre alternate reality version of himself. He also probably assumed that his feelings for Eddie were a _phase_ and that he’d hop on the heterosexual train before he turned eighteen, but whatever.)

“Rich? Are you listening?”

Richie jerks out of his stupid, gay childhood memories to bring himself back to the phone call. “I am! I am. You said something about… risk analysis?”

“Okay dipshit,” Eddie snorts. “Anyway, to recap, I was thinking about you tonight. I wanted to see how you were holding up. You’re filming that special this weekend, right?”

He _is_ taping that special this weekend, isn’t he? And the material is, like, 75% his own, this time. “Ugh, don’t remind me,” he says.

“It’s going to be great. I mean, so long as you don’t make that _awful_ masturbation joke again.”

“I have like eight of those in every set I’ve ever delivered. You’re going to need to be more specific.”

“The one about masturbating to your girlfriend’s Facebook.”

“Hey, hey, that joke is about jerking off to her _friend’s_ Facebook, you fake fan,” Richie replies. “I know thirteen-year-olds who could smoke you in Trashmouth Trivia.”

“I highly doubt that,” says Eddie. “I mean, those kids might know a bunch of your plagiarized material—”

“Ghostwriting is not plagiarism. We’ve talked about this. It’s an intensely normalized process.”

“ _Anyway,_ they might know a bunch of your _ghostwritten_ material, but do they know that you wet the bed until you were eleven? I think not.”

“Hey, hey! We promised to keep that a secret between us.”

“All I’m saying is that _I_ wasn’t the one who nearly broke Stan’s washing machine in an attempt to hide the evidence.”

Richie’s turn to snort. “You did take the fall for it, though,” he says.

“Because I am a _great_ friend,” says Eddie. “And an excellent boyfriend, which is why _I_ just bought a ticket to the filming of Richie Tozier’s next special.”

Richie takes a moment to process that. Eddie. His boyfriend. A ticket. To his show. “Seriously? What the fuck?” Said with astonishment. Not with frustration. He laughs. “Dude, you know you could have just asked me for tickets, right?”

“I could have, but I thought getting them for free would just mean I couldn’t complain when I ended up hating the set. This way I can say I didn’t get my money’s worth.”

“Oh shut up. You’re gonna love it,” Richie says.

“Maybe.”

There’s a moment of quiet, and this is what Richie’s always wanted, right? So why does it feel so bittersweet? Why does it feel like everything is just seconds away from crumbling?

God, what is _wrong_ with him?

“Rich,” Eddie says. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah, totally. You know me. Absolutely fine, all the time.”

“Yeah, sure.” Another pause. “I don’t want to get too serious, but you and I—we work, right? You don’t need to get into your head about it, like, well, I’m not the most sure about everything, either, but I know that I—um, well—that I like you, or whatever. That’s enough, right?”

Richie can’t say anything. If Richie says anything, he’s liable to regurgitate all of his childhood trauma and expose his prolonged state of celibacy. Still, he has to say something, right?

“Look at you, being all emotionally vulnerable and shit—” bad start. Okay. What now? “I… yeah, this is great, man. You were—you are—” one of the only things halfway decent about Richie’s life, right now. One of the coolest, most attractive people on the face of the planet. The only person who Richie’s even _entertained_ the possibility of touch with— “you’re special, you know? Real special.”

Richie shuts his eyes tight. He tries to ignore the buildup of embarrassment in the back of his head. Tries to ignore the constant replay of _dirty little secret._ Man, fuck that clown. Like, fuck it for all the kid murder and stuff, but _especially_ fuck it for all the homophobic trauma it left in Richie’s little thirteen-year-old (and forty-year-old) brain.

“Richie, that was,” Eddie exhales, “fucking embarrassing. I cannot believe that Richie Trashmouth Tozier just told me, his boyfriend, that I’m _special,"_ he’s smiling. Richie can picture it. “Thanks, though. It was sweet. Much sweeter than I ever pictured you being.

Richie wants to kiss this man. He wants to kiss him in front of their parents and hold his middle finger out to them. He wants to bring Sonia Kaspbrak back from the dead and tell her that _ha,_ he’s dating her son. He wants to speedrun the process of getting over his baggage just so he can fucking _think_ about sex.

“Yeah, I can be pretty goddamn romantic, can’t I?”

“Oh, shut up,” Eddie says. More silence. It’s kind of comfortable, now. “Hey, where are you, right now?” Immediate tension. What the fuck?

Okay. Richie is catastrophizing. Eddie is probably asking for some kind of innocuous reason and _not_ for spontaneous phone sex. That kind of thing only happens in movies, anyway. 

“Oh, my bedroom. Why? Are you trying to come over, because I gotta tell you, watching Game of Thrones is pretty impossible for me right now. I don’t have cable—”

“No,” Eddie cuts him off, laughing before getting all weird and quiet again, “besides, if I were there, I don’t think my first thought would be watching Game of Thrones.”

“Oh.” _Oh?_ Richie looks around—what the fuck is he looking for? “I mean, what are you getting at here? Are you just making sure I’m not taking this phone call on stage or something, because that _is_ something I would do, but… uh. Sorry, I lost track of my joke.” Seriously, what the fuck is going on?

“It’s fine, Rich. I’m just wondering because, well,” he hesitates. “I’m in _my_ room right now, too, and I was just trying to picture you for a bit—”

Richie hangs up. No. No. No. Not ready for this. Not even the slightest bit able to think about it without worrying that an NSA agent is listening over the phone, preparing to snitch on Richie Tozier, homo extraordinaire.

But there is no NSA agent, nor are there any homophobic teens from the 80s, nor is there any clown. It’s just Richie. Just Richie, trapped on this constant treadmill of childhood, always making progress, but unable to really _go_ anywhere. Just Richie, still in this one spot.

God, he’s pathetic.

* * *

> **eds** **  
> **Hey, did your phone shut off?  
>  Maybe mine lost signal. Or maybe you just passed out. Whatever.  
> I just wanted to say that I really appreciated what we talked about earlier. Though it ended at the fun part. ;)  
> Also.
> 
> [image attached]
> 
> Have a good night, Rich.

* * *

It’s a photo of Eddie’s dick.

Like, a full dick pic, balls included. It’s, like… circumsized? And really, super pale. _God,_ they are so white. The both of them. Eddie and Richie. Very Caucasian, extremely pale, and honestly, very phallically similar. Though, Richie can’t really gauge _size_ from this iPhone photo. Also, he isn’t circumcised. That’s just a fun fact about him. Mention _that_ in your next game of Tozier Trivia.

He can’t stop staring at it. How is _Eddie_ sending dick pics? And how are they so photographically competent? How many did he take before deciding _this_ was the one? And why is he sending them to Richie?

The long and short answers are that Eddie has definitely internalized way less homophobia than Richie, and that Richie _is_ his boyfriend, so it’s not totally weird to send nudes to him. In fact, it’s kind of normal? Maybe? Richie’s not sure of the optics on sending nudes at their age, but it _seems_ normal.

Man, what does it look like in real life? Definitely proportional, with some kind of tragic backstory attached where Eddie’s mom just couldn’t let him walk around with a foreskin because of the increased risk of UTIs or whatever, but… like… what would Richie _do_ when presented with it?

Well, based on his previous behavior (he really should tell Eddie the truth about that phone call, huh?) he would probably walk out of the room and into the ocean, but assuming he could get past that, then what?

He might touch it. Or, well, he’d certainly touch it. In this fantasy, he definitely isn’t carrying around baggage that’s old enough to legally drink and smoke and then some. He’d touch it, and he’d make some kind of joke about the absurdity of the situation, and it would be very bad. And they would laugh. And then Richie would… _nah._ Let’s keep our fantasies in the realm of reality, here.

Man, he’s been staring at this dick pic for a couple of minutes now—and there’s this thing about dicks, you know? They start to look _way_ less human after a while. Like, this thing could be attached to Eddie or to an alien creature, at this point, and Richie would hardly be surprised at either outcome. It still looks nice, though. It’s still something he wants.

_(Wants_ in an abstract way, you deviants. Of course, he also _wants_ it in his mouth or whatever, but we already talked about this. We’re having a mature, non-meta narrative discussion, right now.)

> **rich** **  
> **yeah, phone died last night, and i passed out while looking for a charger.  
>  cool dick bro.

Jesus Christ. The expletive is directed at the extremely stupid shit he just said _and_ the extremely stupid shit he’s about to do. Man, how is one supposed to work with _angles_ in this scenario? Whatever.

> **rich** **  
> **[image attached]  
>  i’m not an expert on dick photography so this is the best you’re gonna get. love you.

Okay. Okay. Okay. It’s over and done with. The picture is out there. If the NSA is going to take anything, they’ve already taken it. The clown is dead. The 80s homophobic kids are nowhere to be seen. Okay.

Wait, did he say _love you_ in that text?

And what’s with the winking emoticon?

* * *

He did say _love you,_ and it may or may not have been a catastrophe.

Eddie seemed… indifferent? He didn’t make a huge deal out of it. He _did_ mention taking a screenshot and ruining Richie’s comedy career by revealing he was actually a huge sucker, but that was a joke. Probably. If Eddie wanted to sink Richie’s career, he would have more than enough information to do so by now.

Richie, however, can’t stop thinking about it.

It isn’t untrue, of course. Richie _does_ love Eddie. He’s been in love with him since they were kids, and that love has followed him for twenty-seven-fucking-years. It’s disgusting.

It’s just weird to think about. Richie would definitely prefer to have been in love with Bill, to be honest with you. They would have been a celebrity power couple, and he could get cast in one of Bill’s movies. Though, to be fair, that might still happen even despite their lack of romantic tension. Richie has definitely been hinting at the possibility very obviously in all of their interactions. What? He’s trying to break out into more dramatic roles. Look, this isn’t the point.

It’s just that being in love with Eddie feels… weird. Like Richie is reaching for someone way too far out of his league, and he’s going to overextend himself at some point, which is _comically_ false. Eddie is a neurotic divorcee with mommy issues and mild eczema, and yet Richie thinks about that guy and practically _swoons._

It’s just that Eddie is so special. Yeah. _Special._ Last Night Richie wasn’t lying when he said that, at least.

Richie falls back into bed. God. He should probably have a job that requires him to actually get up and do things most days of the week, huh? That’d be good for him, maybe.

_I love you, Eddie Kaspbrak,_ Richie thinks. _I love you._

That feels fine. It _is_ terribly embarrassing, but it’s not wrong. At least, not _so_ wrong. He checks the time on his phone, before tossing it to the side. Okay.

_I love your face,_ he thinks, hand lingering at the waistband of his pants, _and your voice. And your hands. And I love_ —

Yeah. No. You know what? It’s really sad to be a grown man lying in bed in his pajamas at 4pm—fuck. Wait. Maybe he’s going about this the wrong way. He tries again, and instead of thinking of words that are definitely going to humiliate him, even in his own brain, he tries to recall some images.

His mind immediately calls back to the dreaded dick pic, and that’s _way_ too much _way_ too fast. Okay. Let’s start with the basics. Eddie. He’s a good looking guy. Maybe just take that basic image and make it shirtless? That’s, like, barely even a fantasy. It’s something you can show in a PG movie, so it should be fine. Emphasis on _should,_ because Richie is an absolute trainwreck of a man, and his brain only manages to allow him Fantasy Shirtless Eddie for maybe fifteen seconds at most, before putting him in two sweaters and a cardigan.

Richie shuts his eyes. Yeah, he thinks, it _is_ really sad to be a grown man lying in bed, dressed in his pajamas at 4pm, unable to jerk off to the image of his own boyfriend.

But at least he loves Eddie.

* * *

And Eddie really likes Richie. Or at least parts of him.

The pornographic penis photography has become a more or less regular occurrence, at this point, which makes Richie feel like the world’s least impressive premium SnapChat owner, with a customer base of one and a Patreon income of $0. It’s fun, though.

It’s fun to imagine that Richie might see this penis in real life one day. And, you know, he probably will, but every time he thinks about the increasing intimacy between himself and his actual, real life boyfriend, the pale horse starts approaching on the horizon and the feeling of inevitable death is palpable, and so he doesn’t think about it. It’s also fun to think that Eddie thinks about him in any significantly sexual way. That Eddie isn’t repulsed by him and his body.

He’s, like, genuinely attracted to Richie, which is wild. Richie almost doesn’t believe it—often wonders how they managed to convince his childhood friend to feign attraction to him for the most elaborate YouTube prank imaginable—but Eddie keeps saying and doing things that corroborate the idea. Like—okay, so just yesterday, right? Eddie sent over an image from some kind of PR shoot that Richie did to promote his latest special, and he said—no, seriously, he said this—he said: “You look handsome in this picture.” Totally unprompted, no begging or blackmail involved. Like, seriously! For real!

And Richie keeps thinking about this. Like, this guy genuinely likes him. Genuinely finds him attractive. No strings attached, no lies to be seen. Richie cannot fucking believe it.

That’s part of the problem, maybe. There’s a bit of a self-esteem gap between the two of them. Richie can joke about the fact that they’re both forty-year-old men, one of whom has a drinking problem and the other of whom willingly let someone tattoo _“no dice”_ on his chest all he wants, but Eddie still emerges with minimal insecurities regarding his appearance. Or, at least, he’s much better at pretending not to hate the way he looks. Meanwhile, Richie can barely conceive the idea of someone finding him attractive without being super drunk or blind. Or both.

Which leads to now, where he is _shopping_ —shopping! Seriously!—with his boyfriend, looking for a suit to wear for this latest special.

The suit shop—what are these things called? Formal wear establishments? Haberdasheries? Who cares—is seemingly aisle upon aisle of identical suits with minute differences, dangling from hangers and ranging from tiny to huge. There are ties and cufflinks and other accessories in the front display. Eddie seems to be in his element, here.

“You know, usually I just kinda wear regular shit for a comedy special,” says Richie, standing behind Eddie as he scrutinizes the fabric and cut of different suits, all of which look the same to his partner. “I don’t think the shopping is super necessary.”

“I mean, you also look like shit in half your tapes,” replies Eddie. “Besides, you’re barely shopping right now. I’m picking out the garbage, you’re just wearing it.”

“Dude, you are so fuckin’ old. It’s not called a tape, it’s called a special.”

“ _‘Oh, I’m Richie Tozier. I vibe with young people despite having chronic back pain and hating teenagers.’”_

“Hey, mocking people is my bit! You’re stealing my bit! You fuckin—” Richie makes the sort of garbled sound that arises when one forgets how to speak English for a few seconds, “—bit biter!”

“Dude, you are _so_ fucking old,” Eddie grins. He’s so cute. Richie is in love with this annoying little bit biter. “Anyway, dipshit, I think you should wear something like this.” Eddie plucks a suit off the rack, which is different from the other suits because it is… a slightly different color than the other ones? This one is _navy blue_ instead of regular black, or some shit.

“I’m not going to do that—why are we in the suit store to begin with? Why did I let you take me here?”

“Because you, as self proclaimed in your text message a while ago, ‘love me.’ Anyway,” Eddie chuckles, self-satisfied and smug. “You’d look good in this one! And it’s tall—you know how hard it is to find a suit for a guy your height?”

“Not very.”

“Not very! But we got one first try, which is notable.”

“Why are we even doing this, though?”

“Because! I’m trying to teach you to be an adult man, and part of that is buying a suit for a special occasion. This is going to be the first special where you wrote most of the material! That calls for a new look. Besides, you looked kind of sexy in that suit you wore in that one movie. You know, the one with the wedding. What was it called…?” Eddie is lost in his own world, and Richie is stuck on one part of that whole rambling pile of nothing.

“I looked kind of _what?”_

“Sexy,” says Eddie. “You’re missing the point—what was the name of the movie?”

“You mean the movie where I played a stoner? And I was at the wedding to transport drugs? You mean that movie?”

“Yeah! You looked kind of sexy,” says Eddie. “I mean, I’m biased and all, but you know. You fit the general description of my ‘type’ pretty well, so,” he shrugs, glancing back to the suit he’s been holding onto by the hanger. “Do you think we’d have to tailor this at all? I mean, you’ve got weird forty-year-old proportions, so it’s possible.”

“What’s your type?” Richie is fully checked out of this suit conversation.

“Oh, you know. Tall, pasty white comedians with no ability to listen when other people talk.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Absolutely, but I can see you’re in your weird little Richie Brain about me finding you attractive. Believe me, it boggles the mind, but it’s not super hard to comprehend. You’re a handsome guy, you know?”

“I don’t know.”

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments. You know, this is the beginning of your mid-life crisis. You’re grasping for the youthful feel of someone finding you attractive in a movie once,” Eddie says. “You’re a very handsome guy, which is why I’m wasting hours of my time trying to get you to appear presentable for your stupid comedy special that I paid to see. Now would you _please_ focus on the stupid suit?”

They focus on the stupid suit for a bit. Richie leaves having bought the one Eddie pointed out.

“You know I’m never going to wear this again after the special, right?”

“Doesn’t matter. I got you to spend money on this shit. I’m very pleased about it.”

“You are so annoying.”

“Yeah, but you love me.”

“I’m deeply embarrassed about it, but I guess it’s not as embarrassing as you dating me.”

Eddie stops them before Richie can get back into his car, having enjoyed this very fun set of banter in the parking lot of the suit store. “What do I have to be embarrassed about?” he asks.

“Uh, the entire thing?” Richie gestures broadly at himself.

“Dude, I’m dating a rich and successful stand-up comedian-slash-actor. And he’s not exactly hideous. Get a grip.”

“I—” Richie stops. “I guess you have a point?”

_“Duh,”_ Eddie says. “Anyway, do you wanna go to a bar or some shit before you drop me off at home?”

Richie is a bit lost for a moment—maybe it _is_ that simple. And Eddie just likes him. And he doesn’t even feel embarrassed about the fact. Maybe that’s totally reasonable.

But it’s weird. Super weird.

* * *

“That bar was kind of wild, am I right? One dollar shots… that should be illegal.”

Richie is in Eddie’s house. In his room, in fact. And the intent behind the visit is… pretty clear. And Richie is panicking, but internally, so it barely even counts as panicking. And _besides,_ he’s had a few drinks tonight to calm his nerves. All of this anxiety should wash away with a little bit of time.

Eddie replies, “Oh definitely. Someone is going to die of alcohol poisoning or something.”

Silence.

“So,” says Eddie. Richie’s anxiety spikes instantaneously. “We’ve been dating for a while, right?”

Richie swallows. “Right.”

“And it’s been going well.” Eddie takes a seat beside him on the bed.

“… Yep.”

Eddie turns to meet Richie’s eyes. “Rich,” he says, and he’s supposed to say something more—or maybe not. Maybe Richie just wants to delay his inevitable humiliation—but he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts a hand to Richie’s cheek and leans in to kiss him.

The kissing is great. Always is. Even now, though Richie is alternating between feeling like he’s on top of the world and like he’s going to die imminently. Also, he has no idea what to do with his hands, mostly because his arms are kind of frozen in place, his fingernails digging into his palms. His nerves are on fire. His brain keeps generating thoughts about going further and then immediately jumping to the worst possible outcome for each scenario. God, can’t he just be fucking _normal_ for once?

Richie inhales, and pulls away from the kiss for a moment. “Sorry,” he says. “I just needed to take a breath.”

“I get it. You’re good now, though, right?”

No. “Yeah.”

Eddie grins, before reaching up and taking Richie’s glasses. “We should put these away, maybe,” he says, folding the temples forward and placing the glasses on the nightstand. “You’re handsome without them.”

“I can’t see shit—and wait, what does that imply about me when I’m wearing them?”

Eddie laughs, and Richie kind of wants to keep the joke going. To go into a billion different tangents about his glasses and handsomeness or whatever, if only to play for time. If only to make things a little easier on himself, but even that’s not right, because Richie _does_ want this. He wants to be close to this man who makes him terribly, painfully happy. He wants to enjoy all the pleasures of sex without all the guilt of his existence. He wants to enjoy _this._ Truly, honestly, he does. It just feels really… scary, right now, and Richie knows _so much_ about fear.

Richie doesn’t want to be afraid of having sex with his boyfriend, of of enjoying his own body. Richie doesn’t want to be afraid of something that natural, that _desirable._ Richie doesn’t want to deprive himself of a regular experience because of fear.

He takes a deep breath.

They kiss again. Richie tries to take everything in slower. Tries to focus just on Eddie’s mouth, and how horrifyingly _in love_ they are, or whatever. Tries to separate this moment into small components and breathe. Tries to avoid his awful sex-related neurosis for as long as he can. For a second, things start to look much less intimidating. (Note: “for a second.”)

Those drinks must be starting to kick in, because Richie thinks he might actually be able to do this, whatever _this_ is. You know, the last time Richie got this close to having sex with someone, he was in his twenties and _extremely_ drunk. He ended up throwing up on the guy who he was making out with, which kind of ruined the mood, to say the least. _Ugh._ Bad thought, but only tangentially relevant. Who is Richie kidding? This is _Eddie._ Things are going to be just fine, because Richie is safe around Eddie. Totally and completely safe. Nothing in the world to worry about. Eddie is kissing his neck now and he isn’t even freaking out, so things must be going perfectly. See, Richie doesn’t have deeply internalized issues with his sexuality that he’ll need therapy to work on! He just needs the right person to do these things with, and he’ll be fine. Totally fine!

And Richie believes that, at least for the next ten seconds, before he feels/hears his fly being unzipped and— _OH SHIT._

Richie jolts, feeling Eddie’s hand on his dick is… well, unexpected isn’t the right fucking word, is it? It was totally expected—and Richie _cannot_ handle this! Not in the slightest! Oh, God.

It feels good, sure, but that momentary pleasure is totally eclipsed by the absolute flood of dread and repression and horror that floods Richie’s brain. Eddie is completely unaware for a few seconds, but Richie’s radio silence must signal that something’s wrong, because he pulls back and goes, “You okay?” Oh fuck. Holy shit.

Richie vomits.

* * *

Richie is sitting in Eddie’s bathtub, highly embarrassed, waiting to die. The water is near boiling hot, and there’s something like lavender in here? Whatever happens to be in this fancy bubble bath mix. The air is still steamy from the Eddie’s previous shower, which he took to cleanse himself of Richie’s vomit.

Speak of the devil. “So, you’re a virgin?” Eddie’s voice rings from outside the bathroom door. Richie holds his knees to his chest like a sad teenager.

“I—well—yeah,” Richie says, staring at the rim of the tub.

There’s a moment of silence, before Eddie says, “Am I allowed to joke around with you right now?”

“Please. Anything to make this less humiliating.”

“I wouldn’t say that it’s _humiliating._ ”

“Believe me, the guy in your tub taking a bubble bath to calm down, it’s fucking humiliating.”

There’s quiet for a moment. Eddie says, “It _is_ a little embarrassing, but it's not like I have much in the way of experience, either. Myra barely counts.”

“Shut up,” Richie groans. “‘Oh look at me, I’m Eddie Kaspbrak and I _fuck.’”_

“This is one of the only times that you’ve done an impression of me that wasn’t terribly hurtful.”

“Consider it an apology for throwing up all over you,” Richie says. “Are you gonna break up with me or something?”

“No, of course not,” says Eddie. “That would be such a waste. I have all this new material to clown on you with now. You think I’d squander it because of a little vomit?”

A moment of silence.

“That was a joke.”

“I know, it was very good,” replies Richie. “I’m just not in a laughing mood.”

“Understandable.”

Richie stares down at the water, positively dreading the realization that he is basically clean at this point, and will eventually have to exit the bath and look at Eddie’s _face_ —which will make him want to dig a hole in the apartment tile, crawl in it, and die of embarrassment.

“Can I ask a question?” says Eddie.

“You just did.”

“Oh eat shit. You know what I mean.”

“Possibly,” says Richie. “Go on. Ask. I’ll decide whether or not to answer with an extravagant lie, though.”

“Just… why? Like, is there a reason for the virginity or is it just…?” Eddie trails off. I’m being serious. I’m not just trying to dunk on you.”

“I just,” Richie thinks for a moment. “I think I’m homophobic.”

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously. Like internalized homophobic. Or maybe I just have intimacy issues or some shit.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, it’s very sad, and you were about to dunk on me for it. Don’t you feel like an asshole?” Richie says, dryly. “Growing up in the 80s will do that to you.”

“It didn’t do that to me.”

“How would you know? You’ve been, like, woman-married for years,” Richie doesn’t mean to sound as bitter as he does. “You didn’t even know you were gay or whatever until recently.”

“No, I knew.”

Pause.

“What? You _knew?”_

“Oh yeah, for a while,” Eddie says, infuriatingly casual. Like they’re reminiscing over something very innocuous. “That’s why I married Myra. I sort of figured it was a phase I was going through. Or, you know. I would just ignore it.”

“That’s so fucked up.”

“In hindsight, yeah.”

Richie wants to laugh. Richie wants to cry. “Every time I even think about doing _anything_ I can feel the fucking dread. It’s just inescapable, and I have no idea what to do about it, or how to get myself to be fucking… I dunno, _normal._ I almost pity me.”

“Don’t,” says Eddie. “It’s just a bump in the road, at the end of the day.”

“God, dude. We are _so old._ And I'm still like this." Richie sniffles. “I love you, and I’m sorry. I know it’s stupid. I know—”

_“Richie.”_

Richie isn’t going to cry. He’s certain that he won’t cry, but that’s just the signal that lets his brain begin the waterworks. Tears slide down his hot face.

“Richie, can I come in?”

Richie thinks for a moment—pries himself away from that split second of _terrorhumiliationsadness_ —and thinks, what dignity does he have left to preserve? He’s already way more emotionally naked than he ever planned to be. “Yeah,” he says, wiping his face with the back of his hand, which is also wet, so what the fuck?

Eddie opens the door—does he have a key for that lock, or is it one of the ones that you can kind of jimmy open from the outside very easily?—and he looks so awkward. A fully-clothed man in his steamy bathroom, rushing in to comfort an adult virgin. He’s so cute. Richie wishes he could enjoy it.

“I’m okay,” he tries. “Really, I just need a minute.”

Eddie kneels by the side of the tub. He says, “I’m here for you.”

“I don’t even know why I was—” he can’t make himself say the word _crying._ “I don’t know what was going on there, but I’m good now. Great. You already said you weren’t going to break up with me or anything—no take backs, by the way—so I’m good.”

“You’re good?” repeats Eddie.

“I’m good,” confirms Richie. “That said, I’m gonna need you to go again and bring me my clothes. I can’t have you seeing my dick right now.”

“Of course.” Eddie doesn’t even crack a joke. He just does as he’s asked, trying his best to sort everything out. To be a good boyfriend. Richie loves him.

Yeah. That’s the bright side of this whole miserable affair. Richie loves him.

* * *

There isn’t much talk about The Sex Attempt after that night. Not for a while, until Richie gets restless and wonders what Eddie must be thinking, and so he takes him out to lunch and sits him down in Panera Bread and says: “I have an ulterior motive. This is also a Q&A.”

“A Q&A for what? Your special? Because I told you it was good and I _will_ take it back if you don’t let it go.”

“No, but that did make me very happy,” Richie says. It really did. Eddie said that the special was _very him_ and it was sweet. “About that thing. That happened last week. You know. The thing.” This comes out as several different phrases, despite being two sentences at best.

“The thing,” says Eddie.

“Yes, the thing,” replies Richie. “I contemplating doing this over the phone, but then I thought, might as well get some pasta while I’m at it.”

Eddie snorts. “Well,” he says, trailing off as if he were thinking before shrugging. “I don’t know. There’s not really much to say.”

Huh. “There isn’t?” asks Richie.

“Well, I mean, not right now,” Eddie says. “I’ve been reading up on sexual repression and anxiety and stuff, but I haven't built an actual plan to tackle this stuff with. Not yet, at least.”

“Not yet?”

“Oh yeah, not yet,” Eddie says. “As long as you’re okay with everything, of course. I want to, you know, help you in whatever way I can. Obviously it’s deeper than just having one person fix all of your problems with the power of love and horny and shit, but I want to be there for you.”

Richie feels his heart squirming around in his chest. It’s gross. It’s nice. “Oh,” he says.

“Is that a good ‘oh?’”

“Yeah. A very good ‘oh.’”

Eddie smiles. He looks like he’s about to say something, but he opens his mouth and closes it, before opening it again and gently changing the subject. “You seem to be doing better than you were that day.”

“Oh, yeah. That was rock bottom,” says Richie. “The pathetic adult virgin Richie that you saw that night is a specter of the past. Now, I’m a proud Catholic man waiting for marriage.”

“Not actually, though, right?”

“Oh, of course not. Marriage is fake and my mom once told me I didn’t have the teeth for getting married, whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

“A lovely woman, your mom.” Eddie chuckles. “I’m glad you’re doing better, but you know,” he hesitates a moment. “If you ever want to talk about stuff—any stuff. Anything at all—you can talk about it with me.”

“Of course, Eds.”

“You and that nickname.”

“I can’t help it. I love you, and I have to name the things I love dumb shit so that other people know that I’ve staked my claim. It’s the same reason all of my goldfish were named shit like Lord Viscount Fuckface.”

“Truly wonderful names for creatures that died after two weeks, constantly.”

“I know. They left behind great legacies in those two weeks, though,” Richie says. “I really love you, you know that, right?”

“You’ve said it, yeah.”

“You don’t have to say it back.”

“I know. It’s not that I—” Eddie stops. “Okay, I did want to talk to you about that, because I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I do…” he trails off.

“You love me?” Richie supplies. Eddie points at him absentmindedly.

“That,” he says. “I feel that. I just… it’s hard to say. I don’t think I’ve ever said it to anyone and actually meant it. I think it’ll take me a minute to—to do that.”

Ah. Suddenly, Richie feels… a little vindicated? Like, he wasn’t the _only_ one who came out of their incredibly traumatic lives with some emotional hang ups. “I get it, babe.”

“Do you?”

“I mean, I think I do. Though, maybe your reasoning isn’t acute emotional repression at all. Maybe you’re a huge ladies man, and going out with me made you realize that you couldn’t vibe with dudes. Is that it?”

Eddie chuckles again. He always laughs at Richie’s dumbest jokes. “You’re so full of shit.”

“And you love me for it.”

“What you said.”

For a second, everything stops feeling so big. This relationship stops feeling so doomed. And Richie’s problems feel that much smaller.

* * *

The world is vast, the universe infinite beyond belief. The relationship between Richie and Eddie can end in nothing but fallout. And their problems are huge.

At least, that’s what Richie starts thinking when Eddie presents his “6-step Plan to Getting Richie (and Eddie) Laid.”

The steps are detailed in the iPhone notes app, presented to Richie while he sits on his own couch, watching a dumb movie with Eddie. They are as follows:

  1. _Getting this bitch a therapist._
  2. _Tackling self-esteem issues._
  3. Sensate focus thing I read about on the internet.
  4. The Secret Part.
  5. Configurations?
  6. Profit.



Richie has a million questions, but he starts with, “What is the Secret Part?”

“It’s a secret,” says Eddie. “That’s in the name.”

“That does not imbue me with confidence.”

“I can assure you that there is no sex involved in the secret part,” says Eddie.

“Horrifying. Okay,” Richie looks back down at the list. “Why does configurations have a question mark after it?”

“Well, it’s not exactly a step. It’s just, uh. How do I put this…” Eddie makes his thinking face. Very cute, very stupid. “Would you be the top?”

“Oh, like in theory? No.”

“What, really?”

“Oh yeah. I’ve put some thought into that before. Not much, but some,” Richie shrugs. “I feel like if I did that I’d end up fainting. Like, I’m already opening myself up to sex as a concept—now I have the added pressure of _all that?_ No thanks.”

“Huh.” Eddie blinks. “I actually thought you’d go the opposite way.”

“Are you a bottom? Is this you coming out as a bottom?”

“No,” he replies. “This is me being pleasantly surprised that I can knock out step five preemptively, and retitle this “Eddie’s _five_ -step Plan to Getting Richie Laid.”

“I’m very happy for you,” says Richie. “I have a therapist.”

“Well, have you talked about any of these issues with them?”

“Oh, absolutely not. How would I even fucking begin there? That’s so embarrassing.”

Eddie gives him a knowing look.

“You have a point,” concedes Richie.

“I always do, jackass,” Eddie says. “Obviously this stuff will be pretty gradual, and the list is incomplete—it’s not accounting for every obstacle we may overcome, and it isn’t very comprehensive, but these are some basic ideas I have.”

Richie suddenly feels very touched. Like, this guy is doing all of this _for him._ That’s crazy. And also… well. He hesitates.

“You don’t have to do all this,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “I feel bad. Like I’m holding you back from having epic sex with other people.”

“There’s no one I’d rather have sex with than this middle aged man who just said ‘epic sex’ in real life,” says Eddie. “Richie, you’re my… I… you mean a lot to me. I want to help you with this stuff. I want to be accommodating to you. That’s why—” he stops.

“That’s why you’re here with me?” Richie tries.

“Uh, no. That was not what I was going to say.”

“What were you gonna say?”

“Something rude.”

“Oh my God. Now you have to say it,” Richie grins. Eddie glances at him and sighs in a not-really-exasperated kind of way.

“I was going to say that was why I wasn’t making any jokes about the situation.”

Richie thinks about these last few talks they’ve had about this. They are surprisingly bare of insults. “Holy shit, you’re not taking the low hanging fruit at all?”

“Despite all of this being objectively hilarious, no,” Eddie says. “Because you, Richie Tozier, are my boyfriend. And I would never make fun of you about something that stems from your little 80s homo trauma.”

“Aw, Eddie. We have matching little 80s homo trauma,” says Richie. “But allow me to formally say it: I, Richard Wentworth Tozier, give you full permission to clown on me for my virginity.”

“I always forget your middle name is fucking Wentworth.”

“In an alternate universe, my _first_ name would be Wentworth. Just imagine. Me, Wentworth Tozier the Second.”

“Gross,” says Eddie. “But you mean it? I can joke about it? Because I won’t if you don’t mean it. I’m serious about that.”

“I mean it, though I appreciate the thought. I like Mean Eddie. He’s kind of hot.”

“Is that like a kink thing?”

“No? Who gets off on someone being mean to them?”

“Oh, dude, you are _such_ a fucking virgin.”

* * *

Step One is handled on Richie’s own time, but Step Two is something else.

“What even makes you think I have self-esteem issues?” asks Richie, talking to Eddie on the phone. He can nearly hear the eye roll.

“Literally everything about you,” says Eddie, “but, you know, I can kind of tell. I mean, you’re not a bad looking guy, but every time someone tells you that seems to come as a surprise.”

“It’s surprising,” says Richie.

“It’s really not,” says Eddie. “Which brings us to the point of the exercise. This is going to be embarrassing for you, which is why I opted to do it over the phone so you wouldn’t get all fucked up over me looking at you or something.”

“Thank you for the accommodations.”

“Any time,” says Eddie. “Now, don’t get freaked out, but can you tell me three things that you like about your appearance? Any three things. Any at all.”

“That’s a lot to ask for in one exercise.”

“Oh, please. It has something in it for you, too.”

“It does?”

“You’ll have to name your first thing to find out what it is.”

Richie finds himself balking at this; which is the first time he’s _balked_ in the last few days, which have been unnaturally breezy. He supposes that before now, everything was just sort of happening to him, or being presented to him. Now, he has to participate. He has to actually _do_ this stuff.

“Um,” he hesitates. What does he like about himself? Why is that so hard to think about? Richie pictures his body and conjures up jokes—jokes about the fact that he’s out of shape, jokes about the fact that he’s pasty white, jokes about his fucked up vision—but to think of something he likes is troublingly difficult.

“I like,” he pauses. “My glasses?”

“What do you like about them?”

“Well, I mean, they’re nice. They kind of draw attention away from the rest of my face, and my forty-year-old receding hairline.”

“You just managed to give yourself a backhanded compliment, but okay,” says Eddie. Richie hears him sigh. _“I_ like your glasses, but not because of any of that garbage you just said. I just think they’re… really _you._ Like, when I see those glasses I think, those belong to _my_ Richie. Those are for _his_ astigmatism. They also magnify your eyes, which are really nice.”

“Dude, that was so gay.”

“I know, that’s the point. You say one thing you like about yourself, and I tell you how it looks to me. It’s reciprocal or whatever the fuck.”

“That’s such a lame reward.”

“Doesn’t matter. The point isn’t for it to be a good reward, it’s to help you internalize this stuff. You’re a really beautiful guy, Richie. You just need some encouragement to figure that out.”

Richie blinks. Suddenly he feels very _seen,_ and not in a bad way, but not in a good way either. Well, _maybe_ in a good way? He isn’t quite sure. It’s new.

“I don’t like this. This is just you complimenting me. Who’s going to compliment you?”

“I’m not the one with self-esteem issues.”

“Dude, you definitely have self-esteem issues of some kind you bizarre little man—”

“If I have any self esteem issues it’s because you relentlessly bullied me when we were children! And I’ll have you know that 5’9 does not a little man make.”

“I bullied you out of love, okay, and my bullying doesn’t account for the myriad of other things wrong with you! You had some kind of Oedipus complex! Wait—an _Ed-_ ipus complex—and I had nothing to do with that.”

Eddie is losing his mind laughing. Possibly at _Ed-_ ipus complex. Possibly the whole joke that said pun was wrapped in. Their relationship seems to consist of saying unforgivable nonsense that no other couple would tolerate to each other and then laughing so much they get rib pain. It’s wonderful.

“Okay. New idea,” says Richie. “I say nice things about you, and then you say nice things about me, so it’s like a trade.”

“Bad idea. I want you to actually believe the stuff, not just passively listen to it while waiting to tell me some gay bullshit that’s stewing in your brain.”

“Ugh, _fine,”_ Richie groans exaggeratedly. “You’re such a buzzkill. This is why I had to bully you when we were kids.”

“A second thing, Richie,” says Eddie, “and don’t neg yourself this time.”

“How the hell do you know what negging is? Whatever, anyway—” Richie sighs. Okay. A second thing. Uh. “I like my skin, I guess? I don’t have a lot of acne despite being an alcoholic for several years of my life.”

“See, now we’re talking,” Eddie says. “I like your skin, too. You’re real soft, and you’re right! Acne isn’t awful, but you never had any outstanding skin problems.”

“Yeah. Didn’t you have to take oatmeal baths for eczema as a kid or something?”

“Amazing how that is what you remember of our childhoods. We forgot literally everything for a while, and that’s what you remember.”

“Love you.”

“Anyway,” says Eddie. “Cue thing number three.”

Richie thinks again. He says, “I don’t really know. I don’t think I can really come up with anything more.”

Eddie’s voice is instantly a bit softer. “I get it, babe. Do you want to put it off for another day? We can do this a few more times so it’ll really stick.”

“Yeah. That’d be good, I think.”

“Okay.”

Is this what it’s like to be in a relationship? Like, a good one? Where everyone is on the same terms, and all parties involved want the best for each other? Is this what it’s like to be in love?

Richie always pictured love to be confusing—like swimming in a pool of jello, wanting to go deeper but suffocating in this non-liquid and non-solid mess. Wanting something but being frozen in place by forces outside of your control.

Is this progress? Does it mean anything? Is it working?

Richie doesn’t really know, but he wants it to be.

“Hey, while we’re still on the phone, can I tell you about this crazy shit Bill is writing about us for his new book? He has us say like a thousand slurs, dude. And don’t even get me _started_ on this scene in the sewer.”

He really wants it to be working.

* * *

The sensate focus thing that Eddie read about on the internet is meant to be conducted while both parties are seeing a sex therapist, so they’ve already gotten that part wrong.

“I think we’ll manage, though,” he says. “The part we’re going to have trouble with is, well, all that anxiety you have.”

Richie does indeed have a fuckton of anxiety.

“I want to establish that we’re not actually going to have sex. It’s more of a sensual thing or whatever, where we touch, but without any expectation of sex. We just get to know each other’s bodies. It’s supposed to be good for men with performance anxiety.”

“Uh-huh.”

Richie’s having kind of a hard time formulating words right now, on account of the fact that he’s shirtless and lying on the bed, and Eddie is sort of sitting on the edge, also shirtless, before he turns to face Richie.

“This is mostly like… not the way you’re supposed to do it? I just kind of want to reintroduce the physical stuff, but in a safer way. So you have a better idea of what feels good, and what sets you off, without the expectation of doing anything else.”

“Right.”

“Are you going to be okay with this? That’s very important.”

Richie doesn’t know. Richie thinks his triggers are sort of inconsistent—both in source and intensity. He’s got this general fear of sex, but it stems from so much bullshit in his brain that it’s hard to pin down. The idea of doing this—touching and stuff—without having to worry about that is comforting. And there’s one thing that keeps him from falling out of Earth’s orbit due to stress.

“I trust you,” he tells Eddie. “I think I’ll be okay.”

Eddie blinks. “Okay,” he says. “I’m really, really glad.”

It starts off awkward. Eddie has a hard time finding a good position from which to start off with this incredibly awkward thing, but he settles on straddling Richie—and promptly checking to make sure he isn’t passing out from that or anything. Richie tries to stay cool.

“Okay, so,” Eddie says. “We’re just feeling this out. Understanding each other’s bodies. There’s no pressure for anything and in fact negative pressure because we’re not having sex this go-round.”

Richie nods. “Can we kiss?” he asks. He feels very stupid for asking, but Eddie just smiles.

“Yeah,” he says.

They kiss.

Kissing someone is always kind of weird at first, Richie imagines. Like you’re both moving according to your own rhythm, and you’re just waiting for someone to give in and sync to the other’s. Hypothetically, though, there have to be people who work on the same rhythm. Who just click.

Richie doesn’t think that can be very common, but certainly, some people have similar rhythms.

He and Eddie have similar rhythms.

Eddie takes the lead, for the most part, but Richie doesn’t have to adjust much. He can enjoy this as it is—and carefully, with a lot of thought, he manages to make his hands move. He feels Eddie’s back, draws a line down the spine. It’s stressful—Richie doesn’t think he’ll manage to be able to do this without thinking, ever—but it’s nice. Eddie certainly doesn’t seem to mind.

_but_ — whispers Richie’s brain, and suddenly he stills, and he pulls his hand away. Eddie pulls away, looking at him with this same compassionate concern that he’s had since they started dealing with Richie’s Epic Virgin Moments.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Are you thinking about stuff?”

“I—yeah,” Richie says.

“Just breathe, Rich.” Eddie replies. “What were you thinking? Do you know?”

“I was,” Richie bites his lip. “It was two things.”

“Tell me about them, if you’re comfortable.”

“The first one was—well, just homophobia. You know. Like, this is actually happening. I can’t take any of this stuff back. I’m gay, and I’m doing this stuff with a guy, and—and that’s real. I’m… I know it’s not true, but it’s like thirteen-year-old me lives in my brain and he keeps screaming gay slurs at me to make me stop kissing dudes.”

“I getcha,” Eddie says. Somehow, Richie gets the feeling that he _really_ means that. “Wouldn’t it be crazy if thirteen-year-old Richie actually did exist these days? He’d be such a little asshole.”

“Oh, just the _worst.”_

“He’d absolutely call you slurs over Xbox live,” says Eddie. “And the second thing?”

“I… this is going to sound so dumb, but you aren’t, like… I dunno, repulsed by me, are you?”

_“Oh, Richie.”_

“Dude.”

“Right, right. That was very mom of me, sorry,” Eddie says, “but seriously, you’re beautiful. Like, okay, calling attention to this is probably against the sensate focus rules or whatever, but I’ve been awkwardly hard for the last few minutes. That’s not something I do out of repulsion, you know.”

“Oh yeah, your boner’s super romantic.” Richie finds himself smiling, just slightly. “Thanks,” he says.

“Of course.”

Eddie pauses, and then he looks at his watch—which makes Richie snort, it’s such a goofy move. Oh look at this motherfucker. He can tell analog time—and then looks back at Richie. “Do you wanna keep going?”

“Yeah. Yes.” Richie agrees twice.

Eddie doesn’t kiss him this time, but one of his hands cups the side of Richie’s face, before feeling his jawline, his neck, his collarbones. It’s surprisingly intimate, and not stupid in the slightest, which is a shame. Richie loves when things that sound stupid _are_ stupid—but this might be just as good. Maybe better.

“I love you,” Eddie says, and it’s almost absentminded. Seconds pass before he turns red from the admission. “Shit—fuck—forget you heard that—”

“Can’t,” says Richie. “It’s in my brain now. I can’t get it out. It’s stuck in there, like when you accidentally get a porno tape stuck in a VCR.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Eddie says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I love you. There. I said it.”

“Twice,” notes Richie.

“Twice, yeah.”

He said it twice.

* * *

The sensate focus stuff is recurring. It happens a few times from then on. Eddie seems excited about the Secret Part, though, which Richie still has very little information on.

He gets an idea, though, when Eddie gives him a call at 11pm.

“Are you in your apartment?”

“Uh, yeah. When am I ever anywhere else?”

“True,” says Eddie. “Still, I didn’t want to start doing this and you turned out to be at an open mic night or something. Absolute nightmare.”

Moment of silence.

“Is the Secret Part phone sex?”

“Yes! And it’s very indulgent for me, because my first attempt at this was hastily aborted by an adult virgin,” he replies.

“Oh my God.”

“Also, I gave it some thought and figured it’d be a good step for you, especially considering it’s nonphysical and it’s mostly talking. Basically just verbalizing theoreticals, and you don’t have to worry about me making a slightly judgmental facial expression or anything.”

“I hate how you always have a logical explanation for shit.”

“It’s my greatest flaw. Anyway,” Eddie says. “What are you wearing?”

“Oh fuck off.”

“It’s the classic intro! All of my experiences with phone sex were very much me faking it, okay. It’s gonna take me a minute to come up with a script, here.”

“Faking what?”

“Oh, most of it. Like, the interest in the activity, the engagement throughout the phone call, the finish. Being heterosexually married is a lot of work.”

“How do you even fake an orgasm?”

“Extremely easily. Anyway,” Eddie says. “Okay. Do you want to do this?”

“Yes,” says Richie, and he doesn’t even have to hesitate. That has to mean something, doesn’t it? They’re making strides, kind of. Maybe.

“Great, okay. Let me think about this,” replies Eddie. “Okay, so, I think the first thing we can start with is—and let me know if we need to change directions, here—but do you have any specific fantasies?”

“I,” Richie stops. All of his fantasies are just stupid bullshit about being held and letting himself feel cared for. How embarrassing. “No.”

“Honestly?”

“No, not honestly, just,” Richie sighs. “All my fantasies are kind of nonsexual. At least all the ones with details. Like, I get horny, but if I picture anything to go with it I start getting all. You know.”

“I know,” Richie imagines Eddie nodding sagely on the other end. “That’s okay, though. We don’t have to start off with something super sexual. You can tell me anything, you know.”

“Ugh. You’re so caring that it’s almost gross.”

“I try my very hardest.”

Richie shuts his eyes. “Okay,” he says. “I kind of like to think about… I dunno, just simple stuff. Kissing, and lately I’ve been trying to think about other touch. Just in theory.”

“Nice, nice,” says Eddie. “Okay, so imagine I’m there for a second.”

“Mortifying. Okay.”

“It’s not! I promise it’s not. We’re literally dating,” says Eddie. “If I were there right now, would you kiss me?”

“Of course.”

“Mm,” hums Eddie. “I’d run my hands through your hair—”

“My little balding forty-year-old head.”

“Oh please, you’ve got at least five years before you start seriously balding,” says Eddie. “I would tap your soft spot a few times though. See if I can do a factory reset on you.”

Richie chuckles. “Continue,” he says.

“I think you should add something. I can’t make up all of this shit on the spot.”

“Sure.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. It’s just talking, anyway,” Richie reasons, mostly to himself. “I. Uh. I’m going to embarrass myself, just so you know. I’m not good at talking about this stuff in particular, but the point is I’m trying.”

“You’re trying,” repeats Eddie.

“Yeah.”

Richie inhales. And exhales. And inhales again.

“So, I think I would try to touch you. My hands would be under your shirt or something—and then—and then maybe you would take it off?”

“Oh, boy. I feel like I’m watching a movie in my brain.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Richie says, smile on his face. “Okay, you add something.”

“I was having fun listening to you talk,” he says. “But okay, after that, I would do the same for you and help you take off your shirt.”

They trade off for a little while, and Fantasy Richie and Fantasy Eddie end with most of their clothes off, making out and occasionally having their reality bent by Real Richie and Real Eddie making an out of pocket joke. The conversation wanes to a short silence.

“Hey,” says Eddie. “Do you think you could do something for me?”

Richie speaks before he thinks. “Anything,” he says.

“Just. Okay, answer me a question.” Eddie exhales loud enough for Richie to hear it. “Are you hard?”

“Kind of.”

“Cool,” says Eddie. “I—shit, this is so weird—but would you be opposed to maybe… ugh, there’s no good way to say this. Do you wanna jack off with me? Like, over the phone.”

Richie pauses. This is all so much.

But he isn’t looking at Eddie. This is just a step toward the real thing. That changes the tension a bit. Makes it a bit less weighty.

“Maybe. I just. Try talking and I’ll try yanking it, I guess.”

“Yanking it. Never heard that one before,” says Eddie. “So. Hm. Could you just try feeling yourself for a moment? Innocuous stuff, like your cheek. Your jawline. Your neck. Pretend I’m there, touching you.”

Richie runs a hand over his cheek. His jawline. His neck. He shuts his eyes and imagines Eddie here, soft hands performing these same actions. He hikes a breath and tries to avoid the screaming in the background of his brain. It’s not totally absent, but it isn’t as loud as it might have been.

“Are you good? Is it good?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah,” says Richie, quieter. “Sorry. I’m embarrassed.”

“‘S all good,” says Eddie. “I don’t mind. It’s cute.”

Cute. Eddie said he was cute. He’s said it before, but specifically in this context, it feels interesting. Somewhere on the intersection between weird and very, very good.

Eddie talks again. He says, “Could you touch yourself for me?”

Could he? Richie asks himself this question—and he finds himself devoid of answer, because his brain kind of feels like soup sloshing around in his skull; but his hand slips underneath his waistband.

“Ah—yeah,” he says.

“You’re hard?”

“Obviously. Wouldn’t it be crazy if I was just beating my soft meat?”

“Incredibly,” says Eddie. His voice is different. A little bit lower. Richie is burningly curious.

He asks, “Are you masturbating?”

A beat of silence. Eddie says, “You caught me.”

“Oh my God, what do I win?”

“An orgasm, hopefully,” says Eddie. “Or at least a not-too unpleasant case of blue balls.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Hey, hey. What are you, a cop? Since when did you start asking the questions around here?” Eddie says. “I’m thinking about you. Picturing you doing this stuff. Trying to reconcile your poor quality dick pics with what I know of your not-fully-naked body.”

“Sorry about that. They would have been better quality if I had any idea what I was doing.”

“Don’t worry about it. I appreciated them, weird lighting and all.”

Richie shudders. A noise escapes him—a quite embarrassing noise, at that—and he immediately clasps a hand over his own mouth.

More silence. Suspicious silence. _Knowing_ silence.

“I heard that,” says Eddie.

“You didn’t hear shit.”

“But I heard that. And now it’s stuck in my brain, like a porno in a VCR or whatever it was you said that one time.”

“Why are you talking about porno right now? Dude, we’re literally masturbating over the phone right now. Live in the present, Eduardo.”

_“Live, laugh, love,_ the sexiest philosophy.”

“Exactly.”

Richie doesn’t think he’ll manage to make himself come that night, but he manages to get Eddie somewhere close. He describes how everything feels, and (though he would deny it if put under oath) he lets a couple of moans slip. Eddie seems to get a kick out of that.

“Richie, I think I’m gonna come.”

And Richie can’t process that that is happening, and so he produces the most embarrassingly polite response in lapse of his brain: “Oh, please do.”

Eddie does. He swears a lot when it happens, and there’s something very pleasant about hearing that string of expletives and knowing that Richie is the reason for them. And maybe a little something about that tips him over the edge, because then he comes.

“Oh,” he starts, quiet. “Oh!” he says, looking down to see his own jizz coming out of his own dick.

“What? What happened?” Eddie sounds sort of barely-there, in that blissed out sort of way.

“I came.”

“That’s nice.”

A beat of silence.

“Wait, seriously, like for real?”

“Yep.” Richie is almost in disbelief himself. “And I didn’t even worry about having a spontaneous aneurysm while I did it.”

“I’m very proud.”

Richie is… really happy, and that is very stupid—and he’s about to experience post-orgasm drop if he doesn’t get off the phone soon, but holy shit.

Holy shit!

* * *

There is more stuff in between—progress is rarely linear, and certain encounters go much better than others. Certain ones go much worse—but it all culminates in Step Six—now step five?—Profit.

This part is more difficult, because Richie knows that it’s a distinct possibility that they will end up having sex. Mostly because they talked about it _a lot_ beforehand, and so there’s a shopping bag next to Richie’s bed which includes the convenience store’s Greatest Hits: condoms and lube. And also Richie has barely eaten anything today and he just took the longest shower of his life. So, you know, the sex is a distinct possibility.

Richie tries to focus on enjoying himself. To avoid pressuring himself to do or feel any particular thing, and just let things happen naturally. Just let himself enjoy Eddie. His boyfriend, who he loves, who loves him back.

“You good?” Eddie asks. Richie nods.

“Very. Much better than expected. I think we can do away with Plan B.”

“Is that the one where I change my identity and illegally immigrate to Amsterdam?”

“Nah, that’s plan C, but you’ve got the right idea.” Richie glances away, then back at Eddie. Nothing ventured nothing gained. “I think I’m ready for like. The banging stuff.” He stops. “Smooth, right?” he laughs. Eddie laughs, too.

This is good.

Clothes are done away with—Richie handles being naked pretty well. Tries not to think about how Eddie is seeing his dick right now, and visually processing it, but that turns out to not be such a nightmare, because Eddie sees him and goes: “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” and it’s sort of flattering; very stress-alleviating.

“Okay. Alright. I’ve got this handled,” Eddie reaches over to pull the bottle of lube from the shopping bag on the nightstand. “Total expert, here. Eddie Kaspbrak: Fuck Extraordinaire.” He fumbles with the bottle. Richie grins, before immediately leaning back and trying to let himself relax. Eddie says, “Alright, so this is going to be, according to the internet, kinda weird at first,” he says.

“I have also read the online Cosmopolitan article. I don’t think we’re the target audience, though— _oh fuck.”_

Eddie starts off with one finger—as is customary and gentlemanly—and Richie tenses up immediately. He feels Eddie’s hand—the one that is not preoccupied with his ass—on his thigh.

“Are you okay?” he asks. Richie nods.

“I’ll let you know if anything goes horribly wrong. Our safeword can be fuck.”

“Safewords have to be something you wouldn’t say while having sex.”

“I’ll have you know that I become a fine, upstanding, Catholic citizen when I’m having anal sex, and I don’t stoop so low as to use profanity— _ah,_ shit. You keep cutting me off, asshole.”

“You’re most relaxed when you’re talking!” Eddie says. There are two fingers in Richie’s ass, now. Crazy stuff. What a world. “Speaking of which, I seriously need you to relax.”

“Trying.”

“I know, but, okay. Let me just—” Eddie repositions himself, momentarily pulling back his fingers so that he can keep his body parallel to Richie’s. His arm is held at an awkward angle, but he can kiss Richie, this way. And kiss he does. Richie sharply inhales—then releases. And tries to relax. It works, he thinks.

Eddie moves his fingers, and it is a weird, foreign feeling that Richie tries to focus on intensely, if only to keep himself from ruining the moment with any unexpected Virgin Brain Moments.

When Eddie pulls away from this kiss, he says, “I love you,” and Richie feels himself melt. “Do you think you’re ready?”

“Ready,” he replies. And, with newfound confidence, he goes, “Yeah. Let’s fucking do this.” And then he sees Eddie rolling on a condom and he goes. “Okay, let’s maybe wait five more minutes and _then_ do this.”

* * *

Eddie is inside of Richie. Like, _inside_ of him. In the sex way. And that pause in between only took three minutes. Richie bites his lip and tries to keep his thoughts clear and coherent, totally in the moment—but his head is swimming, his thoughts absolutely impossible to keep up with.

“Can you…?” He trails off, a bit occupied with the distracting feeling of Eddie inside of him, slowly moving back and forth, rhythmically and carefully. “Okay, stop for a second.”

“Oh, are you okay?” Eddie says, concern peaking in his voice.

“I—yeah—I just,” Richie exhales. “I’m trying to keep up with everything right now. It’s taking a minute. Could you—would you mind talking? Just so I can stay in the moment right now and not, like, dissociate or some shit. I don’t want to miss out on us having sex because my brain decided to take me to the Swiss Alps or whatever.”

“I mean, that’s a lovely vacation spot for your brain to pick,” Eddie tries. “But, uh, okay. What do you want me to talk about?” You know, it’s pretty clear that this is all a very interesting experience for Eddie, who is performing the task of being a coherent human being while his dick is in something. Richie is almost flattered—you know, Eddie is like this because of _him._ That’s nice. Real nice.

“Anything,” he replies. “Just keep talking. I wanna listen to you.”

“That’s too broad. Give me something specific.”

“Man, I don’t fuckin’ know. Just say whatever. Talk about the groceries or some shit.”

“Ew, I’m not gonna talk about the fucking groceries while I’m having sex with you. That’s going to remind me of Myra and _I’ll_ start dissociating to the Swiss Alps.”

“Why would groceries remind you of Myra?”

“Talking about them during sex reminds me of her! You are discussing some loveless heterosexual marriage bullshit, right now.”

“I’m not! We can have a regular conversation while having sex. Like, that has to be a thing.”

“In _Seinfeld_ , maybe.”

“Stop talking about _Seinfeld_ while we’re having sex!”

“It’s just that it’s a whole bit! Like, Jerry says that Elaine used to talk about regular bullshit while they had sex.”

Richie can’t help himself. “Did you know that Jerry Seinfeld dated a seventeen-year-old when he was thirty-eight?”

“What, really?” Eddie stops, before shaking his head. “I’m not dealing with this right now. We’re not going to talk about Myra or _Seinfeld_ or groceries. The fact that I’m still hard is a testament to how cute you’re being, but I’m not going to stay that way if you keep talking about random bullshit.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” Richie is laughing a bit. “Okay, okay. We’re having serious sex.”

“No, we’re not doing that. We’re just having sex where we try not to talk about any of that dumb shit I just said.” Eddie has the slightest smile on his face. “I—uh—could I start going again?”

Richie almost forgot that Eddie has just been sort of chilling out in his ass for a hot minute, here. What awful phrasing. “Oh, yeah. Definitely. I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

“Thanks,” says Eddie. “I—okay, hear me out. I know you’re super embarrassed about this kind of thing or whatever, but to help out with this talking thing to keep you occupied,” he pauses, “maybe you could talk?”

“Just about whatever? Because I guarantee I’ll go on some bizarre tangent like we just did.”

“No, no, but you could maybe talk about how you’re feeling. You know, sex-wise. Let me know how it’s going.”

“Oh, that’s _humiliating._ Absolutely not.”

“Just a suggestion,” says Eddie. He slowly pulls out, before thrusting in again. Richie feels his face go hot, and then for a moment—just a few seconds—he starts thinking about his gross middle aged man body and the fact that this is his first time and the surmounting feeling of doom in the pit of his stomach reappears for a moment, and he makes a choice.

“Okay, fuck it. Just. Don’t make fun of me,” he says. “It feels… good.”

“Good?”

“Better than I thought it would, and also—” Ugh. This is so embarrassing. “You’re good at this, I think? I feel… better than I thought I would. Like, I was really afraid. And you make me feel. Safe.”

“Aw—”

“Shut up! Shut up! I regret saying all of that garbage.”

“But now I know how you _really_ feel,” Eddie is laughing, now. “You are so cute.”

“I am forty-years-old.”

“Still adorable. Okay, so,” Eddie pauses. “Could I go faster, maybe? Would that be good for you?”

“I… yeah. Just be careful, I guess. This is all really new to me.”

“I know, I know.” Eddie says. “You’re doing great, though. Really, really great.”

Richie tries to keep doing really, really great—and he does feel that. He feels close to this guy that he loves. Feels like everything is going right for once. He reaches up to place a hand on Eddie’s cheek.

“Dude, I straight up love you.”

“Is that any different from all those times you said you loved me before?”

“Fuckin’ _duh._ It’s like, I love you plus. I love you with benefits.”

“So cute,” Eddie smiles. “I straight up love you too, you abject fucking trainwreck of a person.”

They kiss again. It starts soft, and then Eddie parts his lips and Richie moves in sync. This is all too much—but it’s a good too much. It doesn’t make Richie want to sink into a ditch and await his doom. It just feels good. He can’t drown out every negative thought that comes in, but they sort of pale in comparison to the experience he’s having right now. This was what he was missing out on, he thinks. He has it now.

And he really wouldn't have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> so much did not make it into this fic but i just had to be done with it. i had to push it upon the world. but anyway perhaps one day i'll release the deleted scenes that did not make it into the final draft.
> 
> also yes i did realize that they jumped to anal sex too early like i Knew. but i could not look at this document anymore you're just going to have to interpret the handjobs in between on your own.


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